


In Which Pickle Goes to the Hospital

by SelanPike



Category: MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelanPike/pseuds/SelanPike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pickle Inspector isn’t the healthiest guy on the best of days. He claims it isn’t a big deal and that he’s fine, but even a small cold is enough to lay him out and a flu… well. A normal person can sleep off a flu in a couple of days. Pickle Inspector lands himself right in the hospital every time.</p><p>You are Problem Sleuth and you have got to remember to make him get his flu shots next time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Pickle Goes to the Hospital

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, finally working on getting some of my newer stuff up on here. Too bad none of it's any good.  
> So yeah, I dunno... just had the idea for this because I wasn't taking very good care of myself at the time and I was feeling pretty sickly, and then I thought to apply said sickliness to PI. Shrug.

            Pickle Inspector isn’t the healthiest guy on the best of days. Fact is, he takes terrible care of himself. He barely eats, goes long periods without sleep, practically lives on booze and tea. He claims it isn’t a big deal and that he’s fine, but even a small cold is enough to lay him out and a flu… well. A normal person can sleep off a flu in a couple of days. Pickle Inspector lands himself right in the hospital every time.

            You are Problem Sleuth and you have got to remember to make him get his flu shots next time.

            This time was especially bad, and for a moment you and Ace were afraid that this would be it, his bad habits had finally caught up with him and Team Sleuth would be down a member. But you’re not doctors, so what do you know? Once he was admitted the doctors got him stable real quick. So now here you are, sitting in his room, keeping an eye on him while he sleeps in his hospital bed. You sent Ace back to the office a while ago—gotta have someone there, should a Dame walk in looking for someone to sleuth her problems—and there’s just one thing you have left to do.

            You have to call _him._

            Diamonds Droog and Pickle Inspector have been a thing for a while. You’re okay with it in theory. In practice, you hate Droog’s guts and avoid him whenever possible. After all, he’s the scariest guy in the Midnight Crew and he’s taken to targeting you specifically ever since he found about Slick and your…er… relationship. You know that if you tell him where Pickle is he’ll come running—but you hate the idea of being in the same room with him, and you especially hate the idea of leaving him alone with Pickle while he’s incapacitated. If you don’t call, though, he’ll eventually start to wonder where Pickle is. He’s already started calling Pickle’s cell, and pretty soon he’ll realize something’s up and come looking for _you_. Honestly you don’t know why he blames you every time something happens to Pickle. It’s not like Ace never fucks shit up.

            Better to call him now, instead of waiting until he gets angry.

            Pickle’s cell rings again. This time you pick it up. You explain what’s happened—quickly adding that Pickle’s fine, everything’s fine, no need to panic or get murderous or anything—and tell him which hospital room to head for. He hangs up. You take a deep breath.

            You sit in your chair and wait. Saline drips into the IV attached to Pickle’s arm and people in the hall outside rush to and fro. You try and imagine yourself acting really cool. Droog always intimidates you into acting stupid, even when he’s not trying to, so you’ve made a habit of psyching yourself up before he shows up. Not that it works, but you try nonetheless.

            He’s there in less than fifteen minutes. You stand up to greet him—forgetting that Pickle is too busy being unconscious to lecture you on manners if you didn’t—but he pushes past you and stands at the side of Pickle’s bed.

            “How long has he been here?” he asks you, not once taking his eyes off of Pickle.

            “Three days,” you say.

            “He hates hospitals,” he says, accusation in his voice.

            “Yeah, well, we didn’t exactly have a lot of options.” Doing good so far. “He was passed out and burning up and we couldn’t wake him up for anything.”

            “You should have called me.”

            “You didn’t see how bad he was. He needed a doctor.” Then, because you are stupid and you don’t value your life, you add, “Not a possessive gangster.”

            He doesn’t respond right away. He gives you time to realize what a dumb thing you’ve said, time for the chill to set in when you realize what’s going to happen. Then he turns around and shit, he’s got the Ace of Diamonds in his hand, and here you are without your keys—

            And Pickle is stirring.

            You try to sputter out some sort of response, something to let Droog know to cool it because his boyfriend is waking up, but thankfully Pickle does it for you.

            “S-Sleuth?”

            Droog stops advancing on you. You push past him to Pickle’s side, silently amused that your name was the first on Pickle’s lips, not Droog’s. Asshole’s probably fuming right now, but you’re not looking. You put a hand on Pickle’s arm and he opens his eyes and looks at you. His eyes are unfocused and his gaze is nowhere near as disconcerting as it should be.

            “I’m here,” you say. And because you want to walk out of this hospital alive, you say, “Droog’s here too.”

            “He is?” His tired eyes fall on Droog and he weakly reaches a hand out. “Droog.”

            Droog steps over and takes Pickle’s hand. “Good evening, Inspector.”

            “Droog,” Pickle’s eyes are watering. “This… this is it f-for me…”

            “Pickle, you’re fine,” you point out.

            The sickly detective ignores you completely, gazing into Droog’s eyes. “I… I never got a chance to t-tell you how much I…”

            “Please, spare me your final words,” Droog interrupts. “You aren’t dying.”

            “I am.” Pickle practically sobs the words, and your stomach drops despite knowing that his fever’s much improved and that the doctors said he might even be ready to go home as soon as tomorrow. Poor guy really _does_ think he’s dying. You don’t blame him. After all, you thought that first when you brought him here.

            Droog leans in closer, shoving you out of the way with his shoulder. You let him, only because you feel so bad for your fellow sleuth. The mobster brushes some hair out of Pickle’s face. His hair is a greasy mess, thick with dried sweat, and his face is still paler than normal, even if it looks better than it did yesterday. Droog brings his hand down to Pickle’s cheek, and Pickle leans into it.

            “You’re going to get better,” Droog says, slowly. “You aren’t going to be having tea with Death for a long time yet.”

            “Please…” Pickle pleads. “When I’m g-gone, please, go easy on Dick and Sleuth. I—I know you don’t like them… a-and Sleuth’s impolite and has a messy coat…”

            “I’m _right here,_ ” you point out, looking down at a stain on your trench coat.

            “Promise me,” Inspector says.

            Droog sighs. “Of course. But I will remind you that you _are not dying_.”

            Pickle smiles. “Thank you.” He closes his eyes.

            Slowly his breathing changes, and he’s asleep. Droog adjusts Pickle’s hair again before straightening up. He starts walking towards the door.

            “I’m going to get him a proper meal,” he explains. “I doubt that the hospital food is helping him any.”

            You nod, glad that he’s put his cards away.

            He pauses at the door. “Did you want anything?”

            You hesitate. “It’s not gonna be poisoned, is it?”

            He gives you a blank look. If you were Pickle Inspector, you’d probably be able to decipher that look, determine if it means ‘obviously’ or ‘of course not’. You aren’t, though, and you can’t. You play it safe. “Nah. I kind of like the shitty hospital food, don’t sweat it.”

            He hums, and you just know he’s judging your taste in food. Then he turns and leaves. You breathe easier once he’s gone, and sit back down in your chair. You look at your friend, so pathetic and sad in his bed.

            “Drama queen,” you say to his sleeping form. Then you smile. “Thanks for looking out for me.”

            You kick your feet back on the side of his bed and reach over to the bedside table, where you’ve been keeping a cup of Jell-O. The IV continues to drip as you sit in the dark hotel room, keeping watch over your best friend while his asshole gangster boyfriend buys him some undoubtedly overexpensive meal.


End file.
